I got another email today. The kind sender was wondering if I might want to consider a walk-in tub. Good God. I am getting more and more of these horrible spams: for scooter chairs, revolutionary joint remedies, vitamins that will keep me sexy, and bunion pads. I am most unhappy about this, and my junk folder is getting bigger and bigger.
So I did what any normal person in this day and age would do. I tweeted about it. Suddenly, people from across the world (Twitter is amazing) began comparing notes on getting old. And none of it was pretty.
How is it that one day, a person is young and vigorous, and the next day, a senior citizen? Why is it that all old ladies look alike? I often wondered how knee high panty hose, on just about every girl’s verboten list, becomes a fashion necessity for so many ladies of a certain age?
Maybe it’s that first chin hair. You are stuck in traffic, fuming, when you glance in the rear view and see what looks like a wire growing beneath your chin. Horrified, you try to pull it out, but it’s an entrenched little bugger, and so you go to your dental appointment in absolute mortification.
Arthritis sucks. It sneaks up on your knees and fingers. Those agile digits that could untie any knot now can’t even open the jar of peanut butter. I never used to make snapping noises when getting out of chairs, but now my knees seem to lock up just to spite me. I have tried clearing my throat as I rise (a clever cover up, or so I thought), but both my children noticed it and wondered if I have some sort of nervous tic.
Queen Elizabeth is in her eighties, and she never seems to give out. I wonder if she has insomnia or sleep interruptions, like so many of us Baby Boomers. I picture her nudging Prince Philip and saying something like “Bloody stop that snoring, you numpty! You know I have to address Parliament in the morning!”
I sailed through my forties and into my fifties, eating onions, chili, garlic, and all sorts of fibrous delectables. Not a problem for my vigorous digestive system. And then one day an onion attacked me, and I haven’t been the same since. My heart burns. My lower gastrointestinal tract rebels disgustingly. I have burped audibly at parties. So now I have to carry around little packets of things like Gas-X and Beano. This is most distressing, and I have lost quite a bit of my savoir faire, I can tell you.
My twitter buddies also despaired about mood swings, those little necklaces that attach to reading glasses, arriving in a room with absolutely no idea why you hurried in there in the first place, falling asleep in movies, and hot flashes. My God, how can anyone refer to these years as “Golden?”
There are a few compensations. I can’t wait to get to the age where I can say “To Hell with dieting—no one cares what I look like. Pass the cake.” And they are making very good looking elastic-waisted pants these days. Metamucil comes in orange flavor. And the person who invented Botox cosmetic may one day be a saint…
(I want to thank my Twitter pals @ChloeJeffreys, @OKRoserock, @JustRene, @caffeinehusky, and all of those great @ebww women for helping me out on this one!)
Molly is a two time Erma Bombeck Writing Award winner, in both the humor and human interest categories. She won honorable mentions in 2010 and 2012.
Molly,
As I sit in my office, looking at my phone using my reading glasses on a chain and suffering through a mood swing so terrible that I’m afraid for my co-workers’ safety…you make me smile knowing that I’m not alone. Thank you for including me in this group! Recently I’ve dubbed a few of my friends on Twitter the #HotFlashGirls and you are now an honorary member!
Love ya, mean it,
Rose.
I’ve begun to wonder if there is a magic age when we start to pay for groceries with the exact change – holding up everyone else in line while we look for the right combination of dimes, nickels and pennies and asking the nice sales associate if that’s enough now, dear? Hilarious blog, Molly!
Lesley — Your comment: what a wake-up call! I thought my platinum hair, botoxed brow, push-up bra, and mini-skirt would fool everyone, but apparently I’ve been BUSTED in countless check-out lines. From now on I’ll carry only $20 bill$. No cashier will EVER see the inside of my change purse again.
My advice to those of us who are a “certain age”: never travel without tweezers.
You’re old if your knees do a snap, crackle and pop taking the stairs. You’re old if your eyes glaze over when you begin your sentences with’in my day’. Welcome to the OFC (old farts club).
I suppose it’s time for me to whisper into the hollow tree at the edge of the river and hope those damned reeds don’t rat me out: I’m post-menopausal at age 44. Have been for a year. Last week in the bathroom I actually saw something that gave me call to nearly die of a heart attack. I quickly whipped out my cell phone and texted my husband: “OMG I think I have my period!” He, equally concerned that the Post-Menopausal Fun&Games were about to end abruptly, said, “Are you ok?” I didn’t know and spent another hour and a half in mortal terror till finally I gave up & went back to the bathroom to check. Nothing. WHAT A RELIEF! I quickly texted my dear husband again and said, “Never mind honey I think it is just my hemmorrhoid acting up.”
Oh. God. I’m old.